


Long Live the King

by VioletRoseLily



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, French History RPF, The Constant Princess - Philippa Gregory, The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Diplomacy, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Politics, Rivalry, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27287965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletRoseLily/pseuds/VioletRoseLily
Summary: From 1496-1506, five important princes die. What if they had lived? Arthur Tudor rises to the English throne with the politics of Europe having changed completely and yet no less deadly. He has to deal with a larger Tudor brood with their own set of conflicts along with the rising tensions.
Relationships: Catherine of Aragon/Arthur Tudor, Elizabeth of York Queen of England/Henry VII of England, Juan de Aragon Principe de Asturias/Margaret of Austria Duchess of Savoy, Louise de Savoie/Charles d'Orléans comte d'Angoulême
Comments: 378
Kudos: 97





	1. A Start of Something Grand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guy_from_bordeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guy_from_bordeaux/gifts), [Lady_Perseverance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Perseverance/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello welcome to the Long Live the King Reboot. Features include better character development, slower build up, less stupid plotline's that go nowhere and were only added for drama, more smart choices by the author.  
> The only change I regret is I have said goodbye to my sweet Charles Orlando. Even if my original idea for the story, when my boys were only supporting characters, I still failed him because he was being outshined by Elizabeth and Francois.  
> To make up for it, Francois' Daddy is alive and well and Mamma gets to be Queen!  
> With my dedication to developing the characters and their story lines, I just couldn't come up with a good one for Charles Orlando. So I am very sorry. Maybe someday I will try my hand again with that boy, but not this story.  
> As for Juan I went into creating his story, blind and dumb so I will be trying again. I am sorry, but I still like the idea of him being like his sister, Juana. However I will include his musical talent and there will be no rebellion and executing his father. That was dumb. His decent into madness will be gradual and it won't be big and huge right off the bat.  
> Miguel was the only storyline, I was actually satisfied with, but again some more character development.  
> As for England, taking it slow, writing a bit more on Arthur and Katherine's relationship, showing them in Ludlow, making the cracks in the later years hit a bit harder.  
> A big thank you to Althenias' cousin who helped me out with Charles' personality and life.

**_April 8 1498_ **

****

**_France_ **

The Duke of Orléans was a man of almost forty years. He had a gaunt face with a rather large nose, forehead and bald patches of temples. And yet no one would deny he was a Valois Prince of the blood.

He had started the decade as simply the Count of Angoulême, only to be made a duke two years ago when his cousin, Louis of Orléans had passed away, and if the King of France died without any male heirs, it would fall upon him to be the ruler of their marvelous country. This was not a thought he dared utter out loud in fear it would be misconstrued as treason, and he privately begged God for forgiveness for being excited at the notion of becoming king one day, stepping over the bodies of his luckless cousins who were both good and noble men. He had grieved Louis and would be devastated if Charles died.

Charles closed his Book of Hours when the door opened and a sentry announced his wife, Louise, wanted an audience. He nodded his head, smiling when the woman of twenty-one years walked in, partically radiating with joy.

With her brown hair was tied up in a bow, and her blue brocade dress, she looked more like a young maiden and Charles no doubt that was exactly what she was going for. She was a crafty woman and not above using underhand methods to turn his head.

“Dear wife, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asked, suspecting he knew the answer. For the past two weeks, Louise had been throwing up in the mornings, and had begun craving food she didn’t usually like ---something that had happened three times before in their marriage.

“Does a wife need a reason to see her husband?” Louise asked coyly, batting her eyelashes innocently, her blue-grey eyes sparkling like pools of water.

  
“I suppose she does not. However, women like you are always up to something,” remarked Charles, licking his lips.

“You wound me, darling, how can you think me capable of such mischief?” the young duchess cried dramatically, clutching her chest as if to keep her heart from breaking.

“Cease your games, woman and tell me your news,” Charles commanded, his playful tone contrasting his gruff words. 

“Oh, all right, my love, if you insist, I shall tell you. I am with child,” Louise declared, her grin seemed to threaten to split her face.

At once the duke beamed at her, rushing to her and warping her up in his warm embrace. “Truly?” he inquired, looking as though he had somehow gotten back twenty years of his life. 

“I had the midwife confirm it herself, we shall have another child by the end of the summer,” confirmed Louise, laughing as Charles twirled her around, so caught in the happiness of the moment that he could not contain himself.  
  


“Oh, my darling, I am most pleased. Regardless if it is a boy or girl, I shall not care, for I know that God has blessed us,” he gushed, stroking her face, grasping her chin and pulling her forward, kissing her lovingly.

“While your words warm my heart, husband, I am afraid I will be disappointing someone if I do not have a son,” Louise told him playfully.

“Oh?”

“Yes, for you see, François has many sisters and now he wishes for a brother,” Louise explained, remembering how her darling boy had reacted when in October of last year, he was introduced to newborn Claude of Orléans, named for the saint. While Marguerite and their half-sisters had been delighted, the three-year-old Count of Angoulême had most cross at not having a brother.

Charles’ smile slipped, and Louise’s brow furrowed for a moment before she realized that her words had made him think of Étienne, his natural son by Antoinette de Polignac who had died shortly after his birth. Louise had comforted both Nettie and Charles as they wept in her arms. 

“Forgive me, I did not mean---” she began.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Charles assured her, kissing her forehead chastely, before placing his hand on her belly, not wanting to dwell on such matters. “We have strong children, my love, and I have no doubt the babe beneath your heart shall be robust and healthy. If it is a boy, I think we should call him Hugh after our ancestor, Hugh Capet, who began our royal dynasty.”

“A glorious name,” agreed Louise with a nod.

The couple embraced again, pleased to be adding another member to their family, knowing full well that as long as the royal nursery remained empty, their children would someday be called princes and princesses.

They were interrupted when William de Montmorency was admitted into the duke’s study, his face white with shock, his hands trembling as he pulled out a letter from his pouch.

“What is it? Speak!” Charles commanded, having never seen his steward so overcome before. William was a serious man who thought actions spoke louder than words. He did not like to show his emotions, something he has passed onto his young son so whatever news he had must have shaken him to the core.

“News from the Château d’Amboise, Your Grace, King Charles the Eighth is dead,” William announced.

For a moment, no one moved. Although both Charles and Louise had known that this was a possibility and perhaps secretly hoped it come to be, they had always thought they would have more time to prepare like when the late Duke of Orléans had been on his deathbed, sick with a deadly fever instead of being taken so suddenly.

“How could this be? My cousin, Charles, was healthy the last time I saw him. How could he be dead?” Charles wondered, his heart racing fast.

Surely this had to be some sort of ploy, perhaps Anne de Beaujeu was trying to trap him into doing something treasonous. He wouldn’t put it past that wily woman. Unlike King Charles, she had never forgiven him for the Mad War where he and the late Duke Louis fought against royal authority. The French monarch had forgiven his cousins and was quite fond of them. The last time, Charles had seen the young man, he had even expressed an interest in seeing the new grand library of Château de Cognac once it was finished. And that had only been less than a fortnight ago.

“According to this letter, King Charles hit his head on the lintel of a door on his way to watch a game of tennis. When he returned, he collapsed into a coma and then died nine hours later,” William reported.

Louise abruptly collapsed to the floor. For a moment, Charles thought she had fainted until he saw she was curtsying. Then she proclaimed in a loud voice: “The King is dead. Long live the King!”

“Get up, Louise, the floor is no place for a queen,” Charles faux-scolded her, his eyes dancing with affection, taking her hand in his and lifting her up. He suddenly took a step back and pointed at her belly. “This is a sign. A sign from heavens. You are carrying a prince. A second prince to assure all of France that the Valois line is strong!”

“God be praised!” Louise exclaimed. “We shall bring a golden age to France.”

“Monsieur De Montmorency, see to it that our things are packed, we ride to Paris at once!” Charles ordered in a somber tone. “Although Charles’ death is unfortunate, and we shall grieve his passing very much, it is imperative that our country must see their new king and queen are ready to lead them.”

“And they must also see the dauphin so they know that France’s future is secured,” opined Louise, almost giddy at the notion that her son would one day be king.

Charles nodded at this, a frown on his face as he thought of the last Dauphin of France who had died at age of three. His siblings had died after him, all of them too sickly to live past a few months.

“I think I shall go pray for King Charles’ soul,” Charles decided, kissing Louise’ hand before he strode off to the main chapel of the castle, knowing his wife would see to it that the household was informed of their impending departure.

The interior of the chapel was illuminated by four pointed, stained-glass windows. The walls were decorated with frescoes of biblical saints by a number of famous artists of the Early Renaissance, whom Louise had invited to Cognac to work at the ducal court. It was a holy and beautiful place, one the Duke of Orléans couldn’t help but admire even in his darkest moments.

When he was younger, his mother used to tell him that their deceased loved ones were watching them, just as God and His angels were. Although Charles believed in the latter, he had always felt that the former was just superstitious nonsense to make one feel better about losing relatives.

But now, as he kneeled by the alter, kissing the cross around his neck and running his fingers on it, he wondered if they really were watching him.

“I don’t understand it. Louis, you were only three years younger than me and Charles, you were born eleven years after me. How can I be the survivor of you three? How can I be all that is left of our line?” he wondered pensively.

He then smiled sadly. “Well not all that’s left. My son, François, and René of Alençon’s son are alive and well. But it is a thought that I do not take lightly. I swear on my life that I shall ensure the survival of the house of Valois. I shall see to it that our legacy will live on for years to come,” he promised, closing his eyes as he pictured the faces of Charles and Louis.

The young king would grin at him with boyish charm while the late duke would nod grimly, seeing the seriousness of the situation and being glad that his successor was determined to keep their line alive.

“But it will not just be having male heirs,” Charles continued. “I will, as Louise, put it, bring the golden age to France. You started the French renaissance, cousin, and I will continue it. God willing, by the time my future grandson sits on the throne, France will be known for having the best of everything: painters, poets, architects, writers.”

As he talked, Charles’ thoughts raced, half-formed plans sprouting up in his mind like flowers popping out of the ground, a beautiful sight after a harsh winter. “I swear to you, cousin, I will not let you nor France down. Enjoy your eternal reward; you can rest easy for your kingdom will be in good hands.” 

* * *

**_August 23 1498_ **

****

**_Portugal_ **

****

In plays and stories, tragedies usually happened in the dead of winter or during a storm. But for Manuel, the tragedies of his life seemed to happen in the summer, sometimes on bright sunny days.

He supposed there was some symbolism involved, showing how even during his dark days, there was light. They called him Manuel the Fortunate for despite all odds against him, he had continued to persevere, rewarded like Job who had lost everything and yet never once questioned God’s will.

_I have lost my father, my mother, my brother and now my wife far too early. Some days I wonder if I am really fortunate, or if I should be called Manuel the Unlucky or the Cursed instead._

Manuel was broken out of his musing by a soft cry, he blinked, his eyes darting about, trying to remember why he was here. Then he looked down and smiled at the squirmy little bundle on his lap.

His wife, Queen Isabel, had carried this child for nine months, and his birth should have been--- _no,_ Manuel corrected himself inwardly, _his birth is the most joyous occasion in Portugal._

But the former Spanish Infanta had little time to celebrate, for just an hour after Miguel had come into the world, his mother had left it, devastating the entire court including her husband. Even now, as he gazed at his son, Manuel felt a sense of great grief.

“What is the matter, Miguel, have I disturbed you?” he asked softly as he shifted the blanket to get a better look at his son’s face. Oh, his precious boy, already motherless. “I know you miss your Mama, but your Papa is right here and I shall never leave you. It is all right, my son, if you want to cry. I know some will say differently, I, your father and your king, say if you want to cry then come find me and we shall weep together.”

Miguel seemed soothed by his father’s words and now just babbled at him, his limbs flailing about.

Before he could be smacked in the face, Manuel caught Miguel’s hand in his, marveling at how tiny those little fingers were as they curled around his thumb.

“My son, my light, my angel,” he breathed as he kissed his son’s forehead. “You are Queen Isabel’s gift to Portugal, and your country is most grateful for you.”

They had lost a queen, but gained a prince.

_Light born from darkness. Happiness born from grief. Hope born from helplessness._ Manuel mused as he began to rock Miguel until he had fallen back asleep.

* * *

**_September 30 1498_ **

****

**_Spain_ **

****

The death of Queen Isabel of Portugal had rocked the entire Spanish court, devastating her family. Even the knowledge that her son, Miguel still lived, was not enough to stop the broken hearts of the Catholic monarchs and their children.

Just as it was in Portugal, they wore black for the period of mourning, even Juan who preferred brighter colors and always wore a smile on his face acted quite somber. Even though they had been eight years apart, they had been quite close. Juan had even named his daughter Isabel to honor his sister as well as their mother.

The Spanish heir was now playing a song he composed on his lute, a mournful melody that filled those who listened with a great sense of melancholy. 

Catalina and Maria sat with Margarita, speaking in low voices so they would not drown out the beautiful music.

“I remember when we were children and he used to sing to us whenever we felt sad or if we couldn’t sleep and Mamá wasn’t there to sing us a lullaby,” Catalina reminisced.

“Sometimes Isabel would sing with him. She wasn’t as good as Juan, but that didn’t stop her,” Maria giggled. “Then Juana would join in, and soon we’d all be singing and Juan would pretend as though we were a choir and he was our conductor.”

Even though Isabel was older than them by many years, she had always played with her siblings up until she went to Portugal and got married to Prince Alfonso. Although she had been sorry when Alfonso died, Catalina had been glad to get her sister back, only to lose her again, this time for good.

The youngest Spanish Infanta bit her lip, sternly reminding herself that princesses, especially future queens, did not cry in front of others, they were always in control of their emotions in public. 

Margarita glanced over at her husband with a fond smile on his face. “He misses Isabel very much. He has gotten overprotective of our Isabel, wanting to make sure that she is well taken care of,” she informed them. Then something flickered on her face. “Perhaps a little too protective.”

“What do you mean?” Catalina asked curiously, her brow furrowing in confusion.

The Princess of Asturias shook her head as if too clear it, averting her eyes as she spoke. “Nothing, sweet sister. Juan just got a little upset with Isabel’s nursemaid, that’s all.”

“What did she do this time? Misplace Isabel’s favorite blanket?” Maria inquired scathingly.

“Maria,” Catalina admonished, surprised by her sister’s sudden ire.

“Lina, he practically accursed her wetnurse of starving her because she was late feeding her,” Maria pointed out.

“She was an hour late and it happened twice before he ordered her firing,” defended Catalina.

Maria sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “He still overreacted,” she muttered.

“She is delicate and premature. Of course, he is going to be concerned about her health,” Catalina protested.

“All right, that’s enough,” Margarita broke in, stopping the argument between the younger girls in their tracks. “There was no argument with one of Isabel's maids. Other than that one incident, Juan has not had a problem with Isabel’s nursemaids as long as they not neglectful. I only said that because well...I....he just doesn’t like it when certain people visit her.”

Before either girl could question her further, their father strode into the gathering and made a beeline for Juan, his face like a storm.

  
Catalina glanced at Margarita, noting that she had stiffened and that there was a flicker of trepidation in her eyes. Catalina shared a meaningful look with Maria as they came to a conclusion that it wasn't a nursemaid, Juan had been arguing with.

A hush fell over the room as the music came to an abrupt stop. However, despite the sudden quietness, Juan and Ferdinando kept their voices low enough that it was hard to discern what exactly they were discussing about; nothing pleasant judging by their angry body language.

“She is my granddaughter and I will bring whomever I wish to see her,” Ferdinando exclaimed, spinning on his heels ready to storm out.

“Whores have no place in my daughter’s nursery. Even if that whore is her grandfather!” Juan declared, his chin sticking out defiantly.

There were several gasps among Juan’s guests, and even Catalina could hardly hold back one of her one, shocked that her normally so loving brother would dare say something so foul especially about their father.

King Ferdinando’s expression went from shock to horror to outrage, and he clenched his fists until his knuckles had turned white.

Instead of shouting or hitting his son, the Aragon monarch stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Juan then stood up, a charming smile on his face. “Friends, forgive me for ruining this lovely party, but I think it is time I retired for the night. I hope you all will have a most pleasant evening,” he proclaimed as he got up, nodding at Dona Elvira, signaling her to take Maria and Catalina back to their bedchamber.

* * *

**_September 31 1498_ **

****

Juan woke up to an aching headache and pounding on the door. A groom told him that his mother wished to see him, and he had no illusions to why he was being roused from his bed when it was scarcely light out.

“Do you think she asked to be the one to talk to me or does he suspect she’ll get through to me better than he could?” he muttered as he rolled out of bed, not even bothering to elaborate who he meant.

He couldn’t even fault his father for telling his wife because even if he hadn’t, Juan’s words would have been spread throughout the castle within a few hours.

Margarita sighed as she sat up, running a hand through her messy blonde hair, straightening it. “You shouldn’t have said that to anyone let alone your father,” she told him firmly, giving him a stern look.

“Well he was scolding me like I was a child and besides I wasn’t wrong,” Juan snapped, only to soften when he saw her expression. “Oh, all right. I shouldn’t have said it. I really wish you wouldn’t be right all the time.” He then kissed her lips lovingly. “I’ll be back to break our fast. I love you.”  
  


“And I you,” his wife replied, tenderly caressing his cheek.

Juan kissed her lips, her arm and then her hand before leaving her bedchamber, going into another room so his grooms could wash and dress him.

He wore a white linen shirt with a golden doublet and green overrobe. He chosen a velvet cap to be put on his light brown hair before making his way to his mother’s apartments.

* * *

Juan had never seen his mother so angry. Well he had seen her get angry with Juana and her fits. But she never got upset with him, never raised her voice, never spoke harshly.

Now Queen Isabel, clad in black save for the white veil wrapped around her head, stared at him with fury, pacing back and forth like a wildcat.

“How dare you! How dare you!” she shouted.

“Mother, he brought that Ivorra woman, his mistress to see Infanta Isabel. He had no right---” Juan began, a pleading note in his tone, begging her to see his side of the matter.

“He is your father and your king! He deserves your respect. I did not raise a son to be rude and vulgar!” Isabel roared.

“I just didn’t want him to bring his mistress to visit my daughter. She is not his wife or the child’s grandmother, and therefore should not be accompanying father to see her,” protested Juan.

“Perhaps if you had calmly explained to your father that you felt it was inappropriate to bring his mistress to the nursery, he would have understood where you were coming from. Instead you went to Dona Aldonza and told her that if she ever set foot in the nursery again, you would have her thrown out of the palace entirely. Then when your father confronted you about your behavior, you chose to call him a vile word that I shall not repeat and in front of your innocent sisters no less!” Isabel ranted, her eyes flashing as she glared daggers at her son.

“I am sorry, Mother, I know that I should not have acted so. I felt angry and lashed out,” Juan admitted, his expression now shamefaced, unable to continue defending himself when it was clear how angry his mother was at him.

“It is not me you should be apologizing to,” snapped Isabel, having calmed down slightly.

“I understand, Mother, and I will go to father immediately and ask for his pardon,” her son assured her, his head bowed.

All the fury seemed to drain out of the queen as she deflated and walked over to her son, grasping his chin and lifting his face up. “Oh, my angel. Do you not know how bereft your father was when it seemed liked me might lose you? He refused to leave your side, begging you not to give up.”

“I know, Mother. I will not deny that he is a good father,” Juan told her.

“God gave you a second chance, sweet boy, I implore you to take advantage of it. Do not let yourself get carried away by minor squabbles, and instead focus on becoming the wise and noble king, your father and I know you will become,” Isabel continued, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I shall heed your counsel, for it is always wise,” Juan assured her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“I know that you and your father are as different as day and night. But he knows what is best, and as a dutiful son, you should heed him as well.”

“I swear I will,” promised the prince with a determined nod.

“Oh my boy, my angel, I remember the day you were born. I can hardly believe that the man standing before me today is the same babe I held in my arms. I remember how I thought Isabel would be jealous of you. After all, she spent eight years of her life, believing she would be our heir. Instead, she came to my bedside, took one look at you and declared that you were perfect,” Isabel gushed, closing her eyes and biting her lip, trying to stop the tears from flowing.

Juan stared at his mother, his face crumpling as he squeezed her shoulder. “Please don’t cry, Mamá, or I might cry as well, and then we shall be two babes blubbering,” he murmured.

“Loosing Isabel was like a knife to my heart. I can only imagine the pain I would be feeling if you had died as well,” the ruler of Castile whispered.

Juan embraced her, holding her tightly. “You did not lose me, Mamá, I am here and I am well,” he reminded her.

“And I thank God that is true,” whispered Isabel, her hand clutching Juan’s hair.

“I swear that I shall never leave you.”

Of the two vows, Infante Juan made to his mother that morning, he would only keep one of them.

* * *

**_December 24 1498_ **

****

**_England_ **

****

****

The mood in Greenwich Palace was merry and cheery, the fire at Sheen Palace last Christmastide far from their minds as the perpetration for the Yuletide festivities were underway.

Not that Arthur Tudor, aged twelve, noticed any of that as he sat in his chamber, trying to start another letter to Catalina. Unfortunately, He was finding himself uncertain how to start. Well, he had written the “greetings my dearest spouse” part. Now all he needed to do was figure out what else to say.

Perhaps he could tell her about the price of fish that his council in Wales had spent discussing for almost three hours.

No, that was boring.

Condolences for her sister’s death?

No, he had done that already. Besides it had been four months since her sister died, he doubted she wanted a reminder.

Maybe a poem?  
  


Yes, that was it! A poem would make her smile. Perfect.

Arthur sat up, dipped his quill in ink, and hovered it over the parchment, only to realize he would have to compose the poem first.

With a frustrated groan he tossed the quill down onto the desk, getting ink all over the piece of paper which meant he now had to start the letter over. He put the quill back in the ink pot before crumbling the paper into a ball, and tossing it towards the fireplace, not even caring that he had missed.

Before he could start again with a fresh sheet of paper, the doors to his bedchambers were thrust open, and his brother came running in, his hair and cloak slightly damp, his cheeks rosy, and a mischievous grin on his face.

“Arthur! There you are! I have seen so little of you, I thought perhaps you had gone back to Wales!” Harry laughed boisterously.

“I have been here, brother, in my room. What have you been doing?” Arthur questioned dryly.

“Charles, and I got into a snowball fight. I won, of course,” Henry told him, his chest puffed out.

“I didn’t realize that snowball fights involved winners and losers,” drawled the taller boy.

“What’s the matter with you?” Harry asked, as he moved to the fireplace, rubbing his cold hands. Surprisingly, his tone was of curiosity rather than hostility.

“Nothing, Harry, I am just busy with writing a letter to Catalina,” Arthur explained, as he let his head hit the back of the chair.

“Well if you are finding it too hard, I can always write to the pretty Spanish Princess for you,” the Duke of York suggested, his eyes dancing mischievously.

Arthur sat up straight, giving his brother an angry glare. “I do not need my younger brother sending letters to _my_ wife,” he told him sharply.

“Not in a good mood today, are we, brother?” the red-haired duke remarked, an eyebrow raised.

The Prince of Wales inhaled sharply, sinking back into his chair, running his fingers over the gold chain around his neck. “I’m sorry, Harry, I’m just feeling a bit frustrated. I think I may have run out of things to talk to Catalina about.” 

“Nonsense, you are just feeling uninspired today. Do you know what you need?” Harry inquired.

  
“Some alone time,” his brother answered meaningfully.

“No. You need to get out of this stuffy old room and come with me,” decided Henry, picking up the discarded paper ball and tossing it into the fire before he went up to his brother and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him up.

“Get off me,” Arthur demanded in annoyance, pulling his sleeve out of the grasp of his younger brother, wondering why Harry had suddenly decided to be nuisance.

“Arthur, come on, let’s go play chess or something. Then you can come back and write to Princess Catalina about how you lost to a seven-year-old,” the Duke of York prodded him.

“Why don’t you go play with Charles?” Arthur questioned, rubbing his face.

“Because I would like to spend time with my older brother,” Harry answered, causing the Prince of Wales to stare at him in surprise. “And because I would like to beat you in chess.”

_There it is._ Arthur snorted. “Fine, but I’m not going to let you win like your other companions do.”

  
For the first time since he had come in, his younger brother scowled. To Harry’s credit, he seemed more upset at the idea that Charles and his other friends would go easy on him than the fact that if it were true, his wins no longer counted.

* * *

In his own apartments, King Henry VII was glancing over the documents on his desk with a grimace. He had decided to rebuild Sheen Palace, soon to be renamed Richmond Palace, after that dreadful fire that had almost destroyed it. However, the costs for repairing it was enough to make the miserly monarch blanch.

But like all hard decisions he made in his life, it would be worth it. Naming the palace Richmond was symbolic in a way. His life had been uprooted so many times, and yet he came back stronger than before. He had won the war for the crown, and married the fair princess.

And as if thinking about her had summoned her, Henry could hear a herald shouting to make way for the queen. He rose to his feet, getting a chair ready for her.

When Elizabeth of York strode into the room, a noticeable bulge in her red dress. Henry did not know how it was possible, but his wife seemed to be even more beautiful every single day.

_Mother says I was blessed the day I knocked the crown from Richard III’s head. But, I say I was blessed the day I married dear Liz._

“My love, please sit down, you should not be on your feet for goodness sake,” he chided her gently, helping her to the chair, glancing worriedly at her, checking to see if there was any sign of distress on her lovely features.

Elizabeth chuckled, resting her hand on her belly while using her other to cup Henry’s face. “Dear husband, I am not made of glass. The babe was kicking a little while ago, and I thought you might want to feel our little warrior’s strength for yourself.”

The monarch stared at her dumbfounded. “Couldn’t you have just sent me a message to come to your rooms?” he asked incredulously.

“And tear you away from your work, perish the thought,” replied Elizabeth, her tone teasing. “Besides, I wanted to stretch my legs before I spent so much time sitting for the celebrations tonight.”

“Then why don’t you skip it and just turn in early,” Henry suggested, getting another chair and sitting adjacent to Elizabeth. To her surprise, her usually aloof husband bent down, brought her swollen ankles up to his lap, and began to rub it, even taking off her shoes so he could massage her feet.

“Lord Almighty, you are acting like a mother hen,” she declared, smothering her laugh with her hand.

“Forgive me, dearest, I merely do not want you to overexert yourself, not when you are so close to giving birth,” Henry told her, as he continued to rub. His mother would probably throw a fit if she were here, telling him it wasn’t his place to act like a nursemaid for his wife.

For all his sense of proprietary, the King of England saw massaging Elizabeth’s feet as the least he could do while she was carrying his babe. A child who would hopefully be another spare. If it was a girl, he would not be disappointed, especially when another daughter meant another way to make allies.

The late King Charles VIII of France had been focused on war and glory, but his successor, much like King James of Scots and Henry himself, knew that peace was better than war, and was working towards countering the alliances made against France.

“Love, what troubles you?” prompted Elizabeth, causing Henry to realize he had been staring off into space for the past few minutes.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about the report I received from France. It seems much like James of Scotland, Charles of France believes that it is best to get past the bad blood of our countries. I suspect he is hoping to counteract our ties with Spain, and so he is offering his second daughter for Henry and his second son for Mary,” Henry explained. “He has yet to broach the subject publicly as he has not yet ruled his country for a year and wants to avoid angering the French nobles, but he has dropped hints to our ambassador.”

“And what do you think of that?” Elizabeth inquired, her heart beating fast.

She and Margaret did not agree on much, but neither wanted Henry to be sent to the church. Elizabeth because she knew her second son would resent living such a life, and Lady Beaufort because she believed Henry was stronger than Arthur and would need to be trained for ruling the kingdom should he ever need to.

  
“I have no wish to upset the King and Queen of Spain by making a double marriage with the French. However, I can see the sense in averting another pointless war especially when it will cost us much in men and monies. Therefore, I think agreeing to wed one of our children with one of King Charles’ children would be a good move,” answered Henry, his expression pensive.

“While I most certainly agree that arranging a match between our two countries might go a long way, I would like to remind you that Miguel of Portugal is only two years younger than Mary, and wouldn’t our baby girl be a magnificent queen?” Elizabeth opined in an innocent tone.

Henry’s quirked a skeptical eyebrow, seeing through his wife’s ploy in an instance. “That would leave Harry then,” he noted.

“I understand why you would be wary about letting our younger son remarry, and have children that can be used against their cousins, but that could happen with Arthur’s children or grandchildren. We can’t know the future, and I would rather we didn’t make our son miserable just because we are being cautious,” the red-haired woman informed resolutely.

“I suppose you make a good point, Liz, I will think about it. After all, King Charles has yet to make overt remark so I shall wait for him to make the first move,” Henry decided, adding inwardly: _Hopefully he will broach the subject after the Spanish Princess has arrived in England, and has been wedded and bedded._

“We both want the best for our children, Henry. Perhaps this little one will end up being the next Pope,” Elizabeth suggested coyly as he took her husband’s hand and laid it on her belly.

The English ruler opened his mouth to say something, only to glance down at his hand in astonishment. “He kicked!”

“He’s been waiting this entire time for you to touch my stomach so he could start kicking again. He is probably wondering why you didn’t do it in the first place when I informed you that he was kicking,” the queen speculated, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Because I thought it was his mother’s ploy to distract me from my work,” answered Henry knowingly. Before his wife could refute that accusation, he continued: “What do you think of naming this one Edward?”

Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “I think that is a perfect name for him,” she declared, her eyes shining with affection.

Yes, God had blessed England tremendously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: So there seems to be a bit of confusion that I failed to realize until Athenais clarified. Margarita was lying when she said that Juan got into an argument with one of Isabel's nursemaids. She just didn't want to tell Catalina and Maria what actually happened. Ferdinand brought his mistress to visit his granddaughter. Juan objected to that, he did not ever think that she would be in his daughter's household.  
> Try to find the jab at Spanish Princess, I'm sure I hid it it well.  
> Please tell me what you think. I know I am bad with short replies, I am working on it, but I really would like you to tell me what you think of each of the characters.  
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed.


	2. Behind the Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Charles of France is stiring things up in Italy much to the fury of King Ferdinand of Aragon, and the interest of King Henry. Prince Arthur decides to have a little adventure. Miguel meets his new mother. Juan fights with his father. Charles matches wits with his rival much to his wife's exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not mean to make this King Charles centered, but he is a new monarch making waves so it is understandable that he would be on everybody's lips.

**_January 1 1500_ **

****

**_Spain_ **

****

Juan felt as though he was floating on air. He had a son.

“Look at him, Father, is he not the most handsome boy in the world?” Juan asked as his father walked into the chambers, not even looking up from the bundle in his arms.

“Very handsome. I must confess, my son, that I am surprised by the name you chose for him,” Ferdinando remarked, an eyebrow quirked. “I thought you would have chosen Juan, Ferdinando or Alfonso.”

The Prince of Asturias shifted his gaze to his father, gaging his expression for a hint of a rebuke. Seeing none, he spoke: “King Enrique of England named his son after a monarch of legend. I thought that would be a fine idea as my son symbolizes a new era for Spain so I chose Jamie after King Jamie of Aragon ‘the Conqueror,’” he explained, placing the babe into the arms of the nursemaid, kissing his temple before sending him off.

“Then you have named him well,” Ferdinando declared, clapping Juan on the shoulder.

“What can I do for you, Father?” Juan inquired, doubting that the King of Aragon had come to see him to discuss the name he had chosen for his son.

“I am planning an attack on Naples to rid it of that French puppet, and I wish for you to command my troops,” Ferdinando answered.

“Puppet?” Juan repeated. He had schooled his features into a mask of puzzlement, but his tone betrayed his disapproval. “Is Fernando de Aragón, the Duke of Montalto not of our blood? I would have thought you’d be happy that the grandson of King Alfonso, your uncle, sits on the throne of Nápoles.”

“He is illegitimate,” Ferdinando protested with a hiss.

  
“As was his father,” Juan countered. “Furthermore, Pope Alexander recognized him as the King of Naples.”

“Only because he was bribed by that French mongrel!” Ferdinando exclaimed, growing angry by his son’s attempts to lecture him. “Naples is ours by right!”

“Go attack Naples, Father, but I will not sully my hands in a wasteful war,” Juan informed him with a derisive sniff.

“Sully your hands? They are soft and smooth as a woman’s,” Ferdinand sneered. “Christ’s blood, sometimes I wonder if I sired a girl, the way you seem to blanch at the notion of a battlefield.”

“I am no coward,” Juan snarled, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I am just not a foolish bloodthirsty old man who seeks to make trouble when there is none.”

  
  
“HOW DARE YOU!” Ferdinando roared, raising his hand as if to slap Juan, only to think better of it, and instead he stormed out of the room.

Juan watched him go with a frustrated scowl, angry by how his father had dismissed his advice like that when he had only been trying to help. 

* * *

King Ferdinando went straight for his wife’s apartments, finding her perusing a set of documents.

Isabel glanced up when she heard him come in, and sighed upon seeing the furious expression upon his face.

“I take it Juan disagreed,” she observed, her tone sympathetic.

“Disagreed?” Ferdinando repeated with a mirthless laugh. "He dared to lecture me, to say that I was just trying to cause trouble as if those lands weren’t mine by right. As if they were not stolen by that craven fool.”

“He maybe be a craven, dear, but he is no fool,” Isabel noted. “King Carlos is making overturns to England, Scotland, Portugal, Hungary, Poland, and even Denmark.”

Ferdinando frowned. “He is seeking to counter our moves to encircle France with enemies,” he observed, a trace of approval in his gruff tone. Although he would have no love for the French peacock, he had to admit that he was a shrewd man despite his eccentrics. “Have there been any responses?”

“From Scotland, they have replied most happily,” reported Isabel in a droll voice. “Portugal, thankfully, has declined the marriage suggested between Princess Margarita, and Prince Miguel. King Ladislao of Hungary and Bohemia has agreed to marry Anne of Foix-Candale. King Juan Alberto of Poland is another suiter for Princess Margarita despite the age gap.”

“I suppose King Juan of Denmark is seeking the princess for his son, Cristian,” Ferdinando speculated, curling his lip in distaste.

He had heard that the ruler of Denmark, Sweden and Norway had hoped for a Hapsburg bride for his heir, only to be turned down as Leonor was much too valuable to be wasted on a king of a barbaric country.

Isabel nodded, her brow creasing in annoyance. “I have no doubt, he will try. Mendoza has sent us a letter to inform us that the French ambassador has dropped several hints that the third French princess would be a fine bride for the Duke of York or the Duke of Somerset,” she finished, glancing at her husband to gage his reaction.

  
“England will not agree to that. Not after the thievery of Brittany,” Ferdinando declared with a derisive snort.

  
“Pope Alexander recognized King Carlos' right to it,” the Spanish Queen pointed out, before putting her hand on his arm. “Darling, it vexes me that your bastard cousin sits on a throne that belongs to you. However, I have no doubt that you attacking Naples will cause nothing but trouble.”

Ferdinando glared, not happy that his wife was repeating their son’s words, but he knew that his wife was very protective of their children’s inheritance. If she was willing to leave it in the hands of the enemy---after all, despite being blood relatives with the King of Spain, Fernando de Aragón was indebted to King Carlos for supporting his rise to royalty----then she must have a good reason to do so.

“If you are worried about the Pope excommunicating me, he will not, not after all we have done to rid Iberia of those heathens,” he pointed out.

“You said it yourself, King Carlos bribed the Pope, whispering honeyed words, making himself look like the reasonable party in our dispute,” Isabel observed, fingering the cross around her neck. “He will say we are acting against God’s representative. He will whisper in His Holiness’ ear, much as the serpent whispered in the ear of Eve.”

Ferdinando groaned. “So what do we do?”

“We wait, bide our time. God has gotten us this far, my love, I know He shall continue showing us the right path,” his wife replied, giving his lips a chaste kiss. “Shall I talk to Juan?”

The King of Aragon and Sicily sighed. “No, don’t,” he dissuaded, shaking his head. “I have spoken unkindly to him.”

“Oh?”

“I insinuated that he acts more like a girl than a man,” Ferdinando explained, looking pained. “Although, he should not have spoken as though he knew better than I, I know that he is not a coward, just inexperienced in the ways of war.”

“Sometimes I think you were born with a sword in your hand,” Isabel jested, a smile playing on her lips before she sobered. “Juan is different. He is more sensitive, and musical.”

“I know that, Isabel, and I do not judge him for it,” Ferdinando protested, rubbing his face in frustration. “But a king must be prepared to lead his troops in battle. He cannot be seen hiding away in his castle, growing fat while his men die for him.”

“He will learn that in time,” his queen assured him, stroking his arm. “We will teach him.”

“We will,” he agreed, hating the fact that it was more likely that his son would listen to Isabel than him.

He always knew that he and Juan were very different, but it seemed that over time the once close relationship between father and son had gotten worse.

* * *

**_April 4 1500_ **

**_  
England_ **

****

Gruffydd ap Rhys ap Thomas or Griffith Ryce, was fairly certain his best friend was mad. Utterly mad.

“You didn’t have to come,” Arthur hissed when the Welshman bluntly told him how he felt about this plan. “Besides it is a bit late to talk me out of it, don’t you think.”

Prince Arthur at age fourteen was quite tall, taller than his older companions, slender like his father with the golden-red hair of his mother.

Gerald snorted. “You wouldn’t have listened anyway,” he pointed out with a smirk.

Unlike Griffith and Robert Radcliffe, Gerald FitzGerald was a hostage for his father’s backing of the pretender Lambert Simnel, remaining in England to ensure that the Lord Deputy of Ireland would remain loyal.

Despite this, Arthur saw him as a close friend, just as he saw Griffith and Robert.

The four boys had paid servants to buy them clothes so they could blend in as they explored the town of Pembroke. The clothes were made of wool and quite itchy; it was taking them all their willpower not to scratch.

Arthur had pretended to be sick so no one would come looking for them for at least a few hours.

The Prince of Wales looked around the town square like he had never seen such wonders just as every one of these people would probably be staring at the insides of the royal castle.

_If Father finds out about this, he will skin me alive,_ Griffith thought ruefully before glancing at Arthur. _Or he’ll just send me to the king who will probably have me hanged drawn and quartered, after he skins me alive._

“Will you stop worrying, Griffin? We’ll be back at the castle before supper,” Arthur assured him, slapping him on the back. “I just want to know more about the people I am going to rule.”

“Just be weary of pickpockets,” Robert warned, his gaze darting around, peering through the crowd as though he was a falcon, searching for prey.

“Like the child right behind you,” Gerald observed quietly.

Quick as lighting, Arthur grabbed Robert’s shoulder, stopping him from turning around, and dealing with the little thief.

  
  
Knowing what his friend was thinking, Griffith, grabbed a few coins from his purse, and held out his hand behind him. A few seconds later, the coins were snatched, and a glance behind him, he glimpsed a small figure disappearing into the crowd.

“Are you planning on giving coins to all the thieves?” Radcliff groused.

Arthur shrugged, his attention being caught by some shouting nearby. He began to make his way through the crowd, wanting to know what was going on. His friends followed close on his heels.

The cause of the rumble was a man, shouting something in Welsh. The three boys turned to Griffith expectantly.

The Welshman once again contemplated his friend’s sanity for choosing to have an adventure in a Welsh town, knowing very little about the language.

“He is saying that the priests of St Govan's Chapel are all charlatans,” Griffith translated. “That they grow fat like…the Prince of Wales.” He shot a sorry look at Arthur who glanced down at his stomach, tugging at his shirt self-consciously. “That they prey on the weak, stealing their coins, pretending it is God’s work when in reality it is only so they can live and dine richly.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true, is it?” Arthur asked, glancing at his friends for confirmation.

“Everyone has vices, even members of the clergy,” Gerald acknowledged with a shrug of his shoulders.

“But they are not supposed to,” objected Arthur, wincing when he realized just how stupid and naive that sounded.

“I think we should go,” Robert declared, taking in the crowd’s negative reactions. They looked as though they were five minutes from tearing the speaker apart. “I’d rather we get back to the castle in one piece.”

The Prince of Wales nodded, and the boys made their way back through the crowd, none of them speaking until they on the path back to the castle.

“We must learn Welsh before we do this next time,” Arthur proclaimed.

“Next time?” Griffith spluttered, his eyes widening.

“And Irish for when we visit Gerry’s country,” he continued, ignoring the oldest boy’s protests.

“First lesson, our language is called Gaeilge,” Gerald informed him.

“I thought it was called Gaelic?” Arthur questioned curiously.

“No, in English, it is called Irish, never Gaelic,” his friend corrected him firmly.

“NEXT TIME!” Griffith shouted, waving his hands to get their attention. “There cannot be a next time. It will be a miracle if we are not found out, and put under house arrest.”

“Don’t worry about it, I have it handled,” Arthur assured him before turning back to Gerald, not bothering to elaborate on how exactly he had it handled. “Are you sure, it is not called Gaelic?”

“You said that out here, you were not a prince or member of nobility let alone royalty, and we should treat you as such, right?” Gerald questioned, looking at Arthur shrewdly.

“Yes. But be warned, if you hit me, I’ll hit you back,” Arthur replied, taking a step away from the other boy.

“I think that I know what the language of my people is called, you fat dolt,” Gerald snapped, shooting him a glare that would have made Harry proud.

The Prince of Wales glanced down again before turning to Griffith and Robert. “Have I put on weight?”

“Can we just focus on getting back?” Robert demanded, patting Griffith on the back as he continued to mumble about the ten thousand things that could happen next time.

“No, I expect you three to be honest with me. Have I gotten fat?”

Yes, Griffith was now completely certain that Arthur Tudor was completely insane.

Little did any of those boys realize, the Prince of Wales would never forget about what he heard that day, thinking of it for years to come.

* * *

Meanwhile in London, unaware of his son’s adventuring, King Henry was thinking. He was sitting straight in his chair, his hands on the arms of his seat, not daring to slouch. Even deep in thought, he was aware of everything and everyone.

The English monarch wore a black hat, which matched a velvet black doublet with a red and white overcoat with gold embroidery along with the collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece. 

He had light brown hair, and blue eyes which seemed quite small on his long sallow face.

“What is the difference between affable and diplomatic?” he queried, startling his advisors who were discussing the news from France. When no one answered, the monarch elaborated. “The last King of France was known as Charles the Affable; they are calling the ninth Charles the Diplomat. What is the difference?” 

His councilors exchanged looks, not sure where this had come from, not sure if he actually wanted them to answer.

“Affable is friendly, good-natured, amiable. Diplomat is a person who has the ability to handle others effectively,” defined Henry in a tone like a schoolmaster. “The late King Charles was quite a pleasant man, but he was a fool and quite unsuited for statecraft. We thought the same of his cousin nearly two years ago.”

“We did, my lord,” Oxford agreed, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “He is a known womanizer, even brought his common mistress not only to the French court, but to the Vatican.” 

There were some murmurs at that. It had been a scandal when four months ago, King Charles had brought Jeanne Le Conte with him to Rome, during his visit with Pope Alexander to discuss the French invasion of Naples.

“Yes, quite a clever move,” Henry opined, his lips quivering upwards.

“Clever?” Edmund Dudley repeated, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“As I recall, the rumor was that Mistress Jeanne was determined to see the Vatican and she begged the king to take her there,” Henry remembered. “What better way to make everyone think that he was a witless fop? The King of Aragon sent his representative, expecting his rival to be a craven easily led to making concessions after concessions.”

He paused, letting that sink in. “Then what happens? King Charles of France walks out of Rome, with his choice of a monarch sitting on the Neapolitan throne, and the Duchy of Brittany being annexed into his domain.” 

“He used his mistress as a smokescreen,” Dudley realized. “So everyone would underestimate him.”

“Yes,” Henry confirmed. “But that is not all he did, my lords. He also managed to convince the Pope to make Fernando de Aragón, the Duke of Montalto, King of Naples, calling it a compromise between him and the King of Aragon. On paper, it seems ridiculous that he would support a member of his rival’s dynasty. However, the Spanish fox is not happy to lose Naples to a bastard relative, and will strive to take what he feels is his, therefore making Montalto eager to keep France’s protection.”

“Allowing the man to keep control of Naples while looking like he has given up all right to it,” Empson continued, rubbing his chin.

“And even better, because of his decision to withdraw from Italy, His Holiness back his right to the Duchy of Brittany,” the Archbishop of Canterbury, John Morton, chimed in. “The man is no spider like his kin, King Louis the Eleventh, but he is quite crafty.”

“An adversary who fights with words is just as dangerous as an enemy who fights with swords,” Henry quipped, his blue eyes hardening like winter freezing a lake of water into ice.

* * *

**_July 7 1500_ **

****

**_France_ **

****

Two years had passed since her husband had become king. And it seemed that the sun had yet to stop shining on them. _A Golden Age. We are in a Golden Age,_ the queen gushed inwardly. Louise smiled as she glanced at the parterre garden that stretched around her. It was a lovely summer day; one she had chosen to spend outside as she had her afternoon meal.

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” Anne de Beaujeu remarked with a cold sniff, scrutinizing Jeanne Le Conte and Antoinette de Polignac. “It is bad enough that your husband has named two maîtresse-en-titres, one of them is common born.” 

The French Queen bit back a sigh, remembering how she had brought the matter up with Charles when he made it clear he would be bringing both of his mistresses to court.

* * *

_“They both lived with me before and after we married,” Charles snapped, looking angry that she would even bring it up. “I will not change that just because someone like Madame la Grande might get their nose out of joint.”_

_Louise reasoned with him, resisting the urge to burst into frustrated tears. “No one is going to say anything if you bring Dame de Combronde to court as she is at least a noblewoman.” She paused and sighed. The stress of planning their move to court, and the coronation was making her quite sensitive and more emotional than usual. Her pregnancy was not helping matters. “However, Mistress Le Conte wouldn’t even know how to act in court.”_

_“Then you and Nette can teach her. I am not going to change who I am just because I am king now!” Charles informed her sharply. He then softened, and took her hand in his, kissing it chastely. “Darling, I promise you, I shall never treat them as if they outrank you, but as far as I am concerned, they are just as much part of my family as you are.”_

* * *

“To be fair to Jeanne, she tried to change his mind as much as I did,” Louise informed her aunt who was both a mentor and friend to her. “But Charles wouldn’t hear of it.”

Anne made a disgusted noise. “The nerve of that man. He doesn’t care a wit about how his behavior affects his queen,” she tutted.

“That man is your king,” Louise reminded her, with a quirked eyebrow. She wished that the two most important people in her life would get along.

The Duchess of Bourbon’s nose wrinkled as if she had just smelled something unpleasant. Then she smiled at Louise, patting her arm. “Do not get me wrong, Louise, it gladdens me that you are a queen, and that one day we will see our children be joined in matrimony,” she enthused, affection glimmering in her eyes.

“It is just my husband, you have a problem with,” her friend finished.

“I will say no more on the subject,” Anne told her, sampling one of the honey cakes.

“Oh please, don’t stop, Madame la Grande, I am always eager to hear you listing my faults,” Charles sneered, causing both ladies to swirl around, shocked at his sudden appearance. With a sardonic nod at Anne, the French monarch went over to his wife, kissing her cheek, before waving over Antoinette and Jeanne. “Ladies, please come join us. There is more than enough for all of us.”

Anne looked as though she wanted to slap him. Louise decided to bite her tongue, and not to admonish her husband for using his mistresses to annoy his rival.

Antoinette and Jeanne bobbed three curtsies, waiting for a groom to pull out two chairs for them. While Jeanne looked quite nervous, sitting next to Anne, terrified she would gain the woman’s ire, Antionette exchanged a rather exasperated look with Louise, knowing this would be entertaining if not embarrassing.

  
“My goodness, I am a lucky man, to have three stunning beauties in my life,” Charles complimented as he took his own seat, waving his grooms away, deliberately looking away from Anne. “And Madame la Grande, of course.”

“You look very nice yourself, Your Majesty, I can’t even see your bold spot,” Anne simpered, in a sugary sweet tone.

“Jeanne, I never did ask you, how you liked Rome,” Louise blurted out suddenly, hoping to distract them.

She had been too pregnant to accompany Charles to the Vatican. Thankfully, Charles had been forthcoming about his plans, assuring her that Jeanne would not be brought before the pope as if she was France’s queen.

“Oh, it was magnificent, Your Majesty. The Vatican is glorious,” gushed Jeanne, her face lighting up as she spoke of the sights she had seen.

“How was your meeting with Pope Alexander?” Anne questioned Charles when Jeanne had paused to take a breath. “I am sure you two had much to talk about as you have so _much_ in common.”

“Well, as you know, I decided to put an end to the Italian War that was destroying our treasury,” the monarch commented with a proud grin. “I knew that His Holiness preferred an Italian as King of Naples, and I thought he might be more willing to agree if I nominated someone outside the Valois family. Well outside for now, there has been some discussion of a marriage between King Ferdinand the Third of Naples' son and my daughter, Claude.”

“A shrewd move,” Louise agreed, loving how her husband had managed to turn a situation that could have ended poorly for them by turning it to their advantage.

“Is it? Marrying your trueborn daughter to the son of a bastard?” Anne inquired, her tone icy.

“My dear Madame la Grande, for someone who is so large, you think rather small,” Charles professed before snatching the last honey cake from the plate, and popping it in his mouth, not bothering to elaborate on his statement.

“Diplomatic, my eye,” Louise muttered in her wine glass. 

“Besides, Henry Tudor of England is also from illegitimate stock, and his son is good enough for a Spanish Princess,” Charles noted.

“The youngest daughter,” Anne shot back. “If you wanted to give King Ferdinand of Naples a French bride, why not one of your _other_ daughters?”

“Because I must treat him like a follow monarch, if I want to keep him on my side,” Charles informed her tensely, not liking the stress on other. “And more importantly, keep Spain and the Holy Roman Empire from getting their grubby little hands on what should be ours. War is not an option, until I can fill our empty coffers so I must get involved in Italy’s politics, and protect ourselves from our enemies more subtly.”

“Oh, it is not the empty treasury that stops you from waging war,” Anne contradicted, a note of a jeer in his voice. “You never liked it.”

“No, I do not like going to battle,” Charles admitted. “But as you know, dear Madame, I will always fight for a good cause.”

Anne’s knuckles turned white as she gripped her wine glass tightly, visibly seething over the reference to the Mad War, and the implication that it was a good cause.

Louise glanced up at the sky, and realized there was a cloud she hadn’t noticed before, dark and stormy. If they were lucky, it might rain.

* * *

**_October 10 1500_ **

****

**_Portugal_ **

It was a beautiful day with a nice gentle breeze that seemed to sing as it flowed through the red leaves of the trees, causing them to dance as they fell from the branches. The cool, but calm air was a relief to the entourage of King Manuel as they waited for the Infante of Spain to arrive with her escorts and household.

The Portuguese monarch wore a blue doublet with burgundy sleeves and a gold chain around his neck. His expression was composed and stoic until he glanced back, seeing someone who never ceased to break through his façade and get him to smile even at the most serious of moments.

At age two, Miguel, Prince of Portugal had not quite mastered the art of court etiquette. He was trying as hard as he could to stand still, but he could not keep himself from bouncing from foot to foot, eyeing the Sado River, perhaps wanting to see if he could find any fishies or froggies.

Manuel studied his son, his precious boy, observing how strong he looked. Miguel had once been a sickly infant, perhaps because of the poor condition of his dearly departed mother. Nonetheless, as the golden-haired toddler grew older, he became stronger and livelier, sometimes running his governess ragged, by finding ways to slip out of her sight.

The sound of drums brought Manuel out of his musing, and he stood up straighter as the Spanish banners were seen at the top of the hill. He looked down when he felt someone tugging at his robes. Miguel looked back up at him, his smile showing off those adorably chubby and dimpled cheeks.

“Up Papa!” he commanded. The king struggled not to automatically pick his son up, fighting back a smile as he quirked an eyebrow at his son. As young as he was, Miguel instantly knew what his father wanted. “Please, Papa, I’m too tiny. I wanna see!” His lower lip quivered as reached out his chubby hands, and Manuel was suddenly thrown back to the day of Miguel’s birth.

When he had received news that Queen Isabel had died, Manuel was holding their hour-old son in his arms.

_It was the first time I wept since I was a little boy. I then looked down at you, and you wrapped your tiny, little hand around my finger. I decided that I would have to love you as twice as much to make for your mother,_ Manuel thought as he scooped Miguel up in his arms, not caring if it wasn’t proper to hold his son when he greeted his soon-to-be new wife.

Besides, if Maria was to be part of the family, it was only right that she met her husband and her stepson at the same time. _Of course, considering Miguel is also her nephew, it will be easier for them to bond,_ Manuel mused. Infanta Maria was pale and thin, a large nose, a retiring chin and blue eyes. She wore a white mantilla on her head and a dress of brownish-gold. She dropped into a curtsey in front of her new husband.

Manuel opened his mouth to welcome his new wife to Portugal, but the words died unsaid when the boy in his arms spoke first.

“Are you my new Mama?” Miguel questioned innocently, having no regard for the proper ceremony, not when he had a far more important issue he needed to settle.

There was some murmuring in the crowd of people watching, and it took every inch of self-control for Manuel not to whip his head around, and demand the people gossiping about his son be held accountable for that. Miguel was a two-year-old boy, who knew that mothers existed, and that he didn’t have one of his own. It was only natural that he would want his aunt/stepmother to fill the position of mother just as she would Manuel’s wife and queen.

The nineteen-year-old Spanish princess glanced up, her hard expression softening as she searched Miguel’s features, picking out the similarities to her beloved older sister Isabel, just as her parents had done when they visited Miguel.

Blue eyes locked onto blue, and Maria reached out, pausing to glance at Manuel, silently asking for permission which was granted with a nod. She placed her hand on Miguel’s face, her fingers caressing his cheek.

“If you wish for me to be, sweet prince, then I swear that I shall be the most loving and doting mother,” Maria gushed, kissing the toddler prince’s hands, her tone filled with affection and conviction.

“Mama,” Miguel declared, patting Maria on the head.

The crowd of people broke out into cheers and applause, overcome by the sweetness of the scene.

For the next few decades, Manuel would be able to count the times his serious wife smiled so widely on one hand. However, she would never beam the way she had as she gazed at Miguel, tears in her eyes. Whether she was thinking of her late sister or if she had fallen in love that quickly with Miguel, he didn’t know, but he was pleased all the same.

_She will do,_ Manuel decided. _If she loves Miguel as much as I do, she will do well. For my son is a gift from the heavens themselves._

“Welcome to Portugal, my queen, we are most happy to see you here,” Manuel greeted Maria formally, unable to keep a solemn expression as Miguel wiggled in his arms, looking at the river with renewed eagerness, itching for his father to put him down so he could run around. “Aren’t we, Miguel?”

His clever boy stopped wiggling, and turned back to Maria. “Mama is home,” he agreed, a gummy grin on his face.

  
Soon both the Portuguese and the Spanish parties were one their way back to Alcácer do Sal, much to Miguel’s frustration as he didn’t get to explore it. Maria was quick to cheer him up by telling him stories about her childhood in Spain, ones that included Isabel, allowing him to learn about both of his mothers.

By the time, they got into the carriages, Miguel had fallen asleep in Maria’s arms.

“I was so afraid that he might not like me, feeling that I was stealing Isabel’s place,” Maria whispered, stroking his hair, ignoring his governess who had her arms out in anticipation for taking the prince. “I know it is a silly fear since he never met her. Perhaps I simply felt that way myself.”

“Although I did not know Isabel as well as you did, wife,” Manuel confessed, not taking his gaze off his son. “I am certain that your sister would be most pleased that you are so willing to take care of those she left behind.”

Maria nodded, his eyes determined. “He has two mothers,” she declared. “One is in heaven, and the other is here, loving him with her whole heart.”

_Yes,_ Manuel affirmed, _this is a very good start._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't made Anne too out of character, but let's just say that she and Charles bring out the worst in each other.  
> Also just to be clear, he is making fun of her name, not calling her fat.  
> Okay, so what I have read, Ferdinand I of Naples was the illegitimate son of King Alfonso of Naples. There was nothing about any special circumstances, all there was, Alfonso had no legitimate sons, and the Pope rencongized Ferdinand as his heir to Naples at least. So logically that should apply to Ferdinand's illegitimate son.  
> Also, Anne of Brittany is still the Duchess of Brittany, the Pope just made Charles her heir and she can't get remarried without his permission, so never.  
> Happy holidays everyone. See you next year. Love you all.


End file.
